Witch Tree Road

by Peg Simone

supported by
Mark Givens
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Mark Givens Peg Simone's guitar playing, here and with Jonathan Kane's FEBRUARY, is stellar and inventive. Favorite track: AKA Annie.
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The tracks on 2013’s Witch Tree Road hover in unidentified terrain: black and white photographs of someone else’s dead relatives; mildewed cellars splintered with the shards of discolored Mason jars; moth-eaten, unopened steamer trunks; upturned, spinning wheels of
midnight Oldsmobile fatalities; sepia-toned text from newspaper insulation, rendered illegible by time and flour-paste glue; drunken cruelty; ageless suffering; subterranean wrath.

Throughout, Peg’s voice is a torrid whisper, punctuated by gasps that abandon the listener to solitary contemplation, to wonder whether she’s celebrating or mourning; praying or seducing. Such are the transformative powers of a blues sorceress.

I. AKA Annie
II. Perfect Christian
III. Scratching For Light
IV. On Soft Land
V. Piece of Pie
VI. When The Dawn Comes
VII. Broken Smile
VIII. The Trip


released October 1, 2012

Produced by Igor Cubrilovic
Design by Susan Archie
Art Direction by Jeff Hunt
Photograph by Peg Simone
Recorded by Peg Simone at The Mantis Room, LIC, NY
Mastered by Tony Maimone at Studio G, Brooklyn, NY

All music written and performed by Peg Simone

Words on tracks I and V by Holly Anderson (All Rights Reserved/Mythco Music)
Words on track VIII by Bob Holman (All Rights Reserved)
Words on track II from "Good Country People" by Flannery O'Connor

All Rights Reserved - Peg Simone 2012 (BMI)

For more information on Holly Anderson visit:
www.smokemusic.tv/content/mission-burma-holly-anderson; www.publicationstudio.biz/books186

Peg Simone/Catdolls
P.O. Box 6085, NY, NY 10150


all rights reserved



Peg Simone New York, New York

Peg Simone's music can best be described as a mash of dark blues & storytelling.

Recent focus has been on performing and building music from various works of literature, specifically those of the southern-Gothic genre, as well as her own short stories.

Aural to visual - she creates stop-motion animation videos complimentary of the songs that can be viewed on her Vimeo channel.
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Track Name: AKA Annie
So now
I take the car service way out there for what?
To THE Bronx? What is that anyway?
Some wrong turn a Dutchman took?
It’s all gone. None of it is
here: Fulton cobbles dipped in pewter, the shitting,
shrieking gulls
wearing their necklaces of fish guts and dawn-tinted tiaras.
This new joint looks like an airport.
The sweet sweet reek and bladderwrack all gone. All gone.
Some of those weisenheimers always called out ‘Nice rack, Annie’
my buoyant my
bouncing clouds of joy Oh!
how the boys enjoyed the chest that some god somewhere
gave me to share
joyfully with all the world. All gone.
A bit of luck for the really young ones now.
A floppy bit of rest for me old market boyos.
Game over.
Nothing left to sell.
Better to bundle these riddled bones and storied skin
mottled blue and tallow yellow, red bursts and pin dots. What the hell happened to the queenly scroll of vellum that men pored over, studied and adored?

so I just watch wonder
and wait now for warmth to find me again.
Tucked up in a tidy corner with some busted flat, waxed boxes underfoot
and a tower of clean crates at my back.
Dozing. Nothing left to sell.
I’m happy to sleep. When I sleep I can fly. Not so dramatic that
just me running hard
running full-out down a lake road sun-blistered and so
much hair where is that hair now?
The way it wagged like a tail like a curtain like water tumbling over rocks
my mouth laughing the panting he is chasing my fine frame wanting me again wanting to worship at my freckled altar
but I’m always running hard and then
and then I’m lifting off tanned legs bicycling over spruce tops far
far beneath the skittish clouds and I can read all the
alphabets of pine pitch birds bottle green and blue sky symbols.
Flying high where it’s clear and it’s cold as pack ice.
Where it’s polar. Where it’s quiet. It’s so quiet.

Maybe I’m a satellite.
Track Name: Scratching For Light
Winter wears its heavy, velvet cloak of darkness
With a harsh and unforgiving smirk
It’s sharp metallic, chiseled teeth
Bare a tormenting, cruel smile
Darkness, grows unbridled in the Winter
Darkness, has no limits to where it can plunge the human spirit
Darkness, thrives through slow moving months
Gnawing at shards & glimpses of optimism
Darkness, shadows the sun and blankets its warm kiss
Darkness, needles the mind
Pokes numerous, tiny holes in the brittle frailty of a consciousness scraping for fire
Attempting to break through the solemnity
So futile and destructive the self medicated attempts
Of one waiting for the sun
Track Name: On Soft Land
It's hotter than usual today
The air just won't give no sway
I think about the bird sitting on the ledge
I think about falling and I think about death
I feel like running away to the moon
But the moon ain't biting while I'm hooked on you
I scraped the ledge with the palm of my hand
When I jumped I fell on soft land

Don't think I was ready to go
So I'll walk a little further on down this road
And I'll keep that box of letters and gold
In that hidden place until I grow old
And when I'm ready to pull them out
I'll smile with love instead of doubt
And I'll stand on the ledge with the stars in my hand
Then I'll jump back on soft land
Track Name: Piece of Pie
Well, goddamn it, I was driving due west across the whole wild fire conflagrated, smoke-choked, low-to-no-visibility war-mongering country to be with you. Really.
And so sorry about this voicemail but I was driving out to become a gardening guru and live happily everwhatever with you. Really.
My trunk’s still full of tools and catalogs and bee boxes. And I only stopped off I-80 looking for a slab of homemade pie because these piles of clouds had me dreaming about meringue riding
high on a hefty slice of pie and Lyman, WY looked just like ‘Lemon, WY’ when the blank miles stacked up so hypnotically. And Lyman was the next exit so in retrospect all seems uh, preordained, you know?
Don’t get me wrong — you’re going to be fantastically successful giving high colonics to corrupted bodies just waiting for your special acidophilous flush and sorry I couldn’t ever let you near me with your little green practice hose but like you always said my body is my temple — so stay the hell away from — I’m digressing,
sorry but, there was absolutely no way of knowing this Cowboy Inn Cafe on the sandy edge of nowhere would serve nine kinds of fresh baked pie: coconut custard, chocolate custard, rhubarb, strawberry creme, banana creme, blueberry, gooseberry, lemon and pecan. No way of knowing these pies would be baked six days a week
by a rangy, big knuckled bullrider from South Dakota named Owen Slides Off. And I had no way of knowing then that we’d soon spend every spare minute upstairs in a simulated wood-grain paneled room. Way up some crooked stairs devouring each other as these clouds that brought me to Exit 41 in the first place clamber across a
herd of bleached blue skies.
Mobile breaking up now.
Please forgive me all my appetites.
Track Name: When The Dawn Comes
Did you see the moon rise above the water
I’ll meet you when the dawn comes
Track Name: Broken Smile
She came to him and she held his shaking hand
She came to him and she held his shaking hand
Said we don't stand a chance
We don't stand a chance

She stayed with him and she wiped the blood from his eye
She stayed with him and she kept a watchful eye
Before she started should've said goodbye
Before she started should've said goodbye

Before she left she kissed his broken smile
Before she left she kissed his broken smile
Said we would only last a while
Said we would only last a while

I still wonder why I came
I still wonder why I came
Track Name: The Trip
The Trip
“Even though I am a Hippie/sometimes I just cannot Love.”

Brain universe totality afloat in skull sea eternity pill
Bluesilver Redgold Greenblack Gelitentacle Aieee
Balance elephant dance construct on shell of giant tortoise
Goo’bye! We gon’ missin’ you! You a-goin on a trip’n
Everyone else is here waving adios weiedersehn
Ciao sayanora a bientot gooby googoo
Googly all eyes on you! Luckily (all ways “luckily”)
So much going on county fair-wise carousel ferris wheel
Running circles merry-go-rounds of energy from
Organ grinder’s cranking monkey scat tapdance shuffle candy cotton
Corn dog braying contests allow you to nip round back
o’Freakshow tent with little purple barrels of Trip ~~~~~ Light
Bulb smashes slivers teeth grit dripping light

Welcome Well Come Writewritewrite Po Dem
Poor everybody All Emotion what’s the word for

For gold shone shine on Holy Mount Vaginasof Tamalpais
Acid Tribal Gathering Riposte: All nod together now
NO CAN WRITE ink blending into page, it’s All One

Here I capped the mesc
Split the little containers plastique
Get wacky wordy Scooooop the brown brain pow
Der in and slip other half cap in and twisty That’s one
Put it aside and dive into Two
Know what it means to dive into two?
That’s the part that allows no digressions as my Man
Hammers around on the ark where we take two
Of each kind, tanGoing who is your Other? and as sun sets my other Man’s
Man just hears Moon
Will join our ark space launch slated for later the same ~~~~~~~~
We are going to the moon, now luckily the moon will be with us, so
We will already be there before we leave! Get image beyond definition rose

Destination Road Rise Rose
Terrific flower gold sun blossom into single bud eternal stillness enwrapped
Rapt all possibility no actuality hyper image of no image What Will Be Rose
Green thorn paramecium coverlet, hairy ball raging, gorging scientific taxonomic dialogue with language itself
(“The River”)
To all those who died believing in their reality, the Window is
Not The Window but is only the window – the window of the apartment with the tin fool wall paper and the Indian medal lamp covering the red bulb of love is not the window of eternal consciousness no matter how far out you may walk trying to open the Doors of Perception on

O Rose thou art sick, ah Sunflower, slowly eternally sisyphisian unrolling the hard green allowing alarming smell supple red petals to unfurl their hair to beckoning sky

While meanwhile the strychnine has kicked in and the answer with a ding is the bell and wandering in the tchotchke store (I AM A WRITER) I buy All The Bells in the store, And The Stand They Came In On (ten dollars) …

Once in North Carolina Pat looked at me and said, That’s just like you, you’d rather trip with strangers than relax with your girlfriend

I got a phone call from Danny DuBoff and Will Daily to come to this party (or was it Jocko?) that there was some crazy ass weed there so I jumped out of bed told Pat I’d be back and lit out for the gathering where we smoked “Hog,” which would eventually pick up the moniker “Angel Dust.” Its defining characteristic was you were here, you were there, but you were never in between. Was this where I was shouting Groove on Boogey as we listened to the droning bass clack paddle bell of Nonesuch’s Chanting Tibetan Monks, one of my Top Ten Picks, up there w/ Hendrix, Beatles, Salty Dog (Procul Harem). King Crimson…Talking w/ Will and Danny, I went into detail of my Experiencing, at which point they offered me a job, to start immediately!, as their Taster, first assignment to work on big Mescaline Deal in Sausalito

O Gods of Tiny Particles, and Absurdity of Gods of Humongous Important Shit! Call on you psychedelically I got my trip shirt on, the long white embroidered Indian light as wind catcher skin itself (even better than skin!) and my Freak Flag is a-flyin, -- I don’t think I cut my hair till 79 or 80 years, down to the ass, at war with Society, the drugs making the two sides speaking different languages, different consciousnesses, different worlds… the busted nuclear family with the overbearing mother acting like she’s not and the emotion-starving father and his disappearing act vs. the Family We Choose Ourselves, the commune, our promises to stay together busting up by money, my shrink now telling me to create a “soft landing” when money becomes the Issue, and how I am maybe even doing that in buying Elizabeth all the comforts we can think of, she wakes up in the morning feeling awful, says “I don’t think I’m going to get better” and yet last week, for the first time since January, six months ago, when we had to go off Patupilone, that the tumors have been in retreat…